by Greg Herren
She might not be far wrong, at that.
I slid the bikini off and handed it over. The towel was warm and felt good against my skin. “Frank was going to do it, too, but then, you know, the training school thing came up,” I added as I took a seat in the room just beyond the back door.
“I have to say, I admire your Frank for taking the chance.” Doc took the bikini and walked through the door on the other side of the room. I heard the sound of the dryer being started. “That took some courage,” he said as he came back into the room. “Would you like a drink?” he asked as he walked over to the bar. Despite the fact that he was home alone, he was impeccably dressed in a white shirt and a pair of blue slacks that matched the vest straining to stay buttoned over his stomach. He poured himself two fingers of bourbon. After I declined his offer, he sat down in a wingback chair and propped his feet up on a hassock. “One should always reach for the brass rings in life, you know.”
Doc was always encouraging people to grab for brass rings. He gave me a lascivious look and winked. “And I should think your Frank would look marvelous in those little tights they wear.”
“He does,” I admitted. A few days earlier, Frank had e-mailed me a photo of him in his ring attire—white leather boots to the knee that laced up the front, white knee and elbow pads, and the trunks were electric blue with a silver lightning bolt across the crotch. He’d been standing in a corner of the ring, his left foot up on the bottom rope, every muscle in his body flexed and tightened, glistening in the light.
I’d really missed him at that moment.
Doc gestured at me with his glass. “You miss him, don’t you?” He gave me a little smile. “I can see that you do…don’t worry, Scotty, he’ll be home sooner than you realize.”
I opened my mouth to reply but his phone started ringing. “Tut, tut.” He hoisted himself out of his chair. “I should get that. Though I can’t imagine who’d been calling me on Easter Sunday.” I knew he had a sister who lived up in Vicksburg, but they weren’t particularly close. Doc was a confirmed bachelor, a polite Southern euphemism usually substituted for “gay” among the older, more genteel generations. I’d never seen any evidence he was actually gay. Sure, every once in a great while he’d say something that could be interpreted that way—his remark about Frank looking good in the tights, for example—but as far as I knew, he’d never had a lover, male or female.
He had a lot of artistic nudes, paintings and photographs, hanging throughout the apartment, but the models were both men and women—and the artists were all famous. His art collection was worth a small fortune. The room I was in—which he called the “back parlor”—had several works by George Dureau, among others, on display.
Doc was a bit of a pack rat—his entire apartment was crammed full of books and art. Every available surface seemed to be stacked high with books. When I was a little boy and we’d come over, I’d spend hours reading the names on the spines of the books. Doc always encouraged me to read—“Reading makes you smarter, even if you read trashy books,” he always said—and while the adults talked, I’d curl up on a sofa and read one of his books. He had just as many “trashy novels” as he did classics.
I doubted many other people had Jacqueline Susann next to John Steinbeck on their shelves.
But his absolute favorite books were mysteries. He had probably the most extensive collection of mysteries outside of a library. In fact, the latest S. J. Rozan novel was sitting on the table next to his chair, with a bookmark stuck close to the middle.
The dryer made a buzzing sound. I got up and walked into the little alcove where his washer and dryer sat next to a very deep sink. Even the shelves in the little laundry space were crammed full of books. I couldn’t help but grin when I noticed dried drops of laundry detergent on the spines of the books piled next to the orange plastic bottle. I opened the dryer and grabbed my bikini. The white ball on the back had fluffed larger, but it was dry. I slid it on and looked at myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall.
The bikini material had dried enough so it no longer was like wearing cellophane. I ran my fingers through my curly hair to fluff the curls out some more. I’m only five-nine, but I weigh about a hundred and eighty pounds. I examined myself in the mirror thoroughly. I looked pretty good for thirty-three. I turned sideways and looked for the love handles. Damn, they were still there—but they were smaller than they had been. They’d be gone before Frank got back, I vowed. I turned to face the mirror, and grinned at myself. I still looked good. Maybe not quite as good as I did when I danced for tips in a thong, but my body still had definition.
I placed the towel in the washer and grabbed a book called The History of Time Inc 1941–1960 from one of the shelves. I walked back into the back parlor, flipping through the pages, and sat back down.
Doc limped through the doorway. His face was reddened, and he was breathing heavily. “Are you okay, Doc?” I asked, concerned. He’d had an incident with his heart around Christmas, and I knew Mom worried about him. Her lectures about his cigars and bourbon fell on deaf ears.
“I’m—fine.” He picked up his glass of bourbon and took a drink. “Just an upsetting call, nothing to worry about.” He waved his hand.
“Well, thanks for the towel and drying my costume,” I replied, giving him a wink. “But I’d better get going or I’ll be late—and you know what Mom is like when someone is late.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “I was hoping to have a nice visit.”
I looked at my watch. “I really am going to be late,” I apologized. “Maybe I could stop by tomorrow?”
He struggled up out of his chair. His face was still red, and his breathing hadn’t calmed either. “I have something for you—I’ve been meaning to give it to you for years, and that outfit”—he suppressed a laugh—“reminded me. Give me a moment.” He walked out of the room, leaning heavily on his cane.
I was a little worried about him, actually. He wasn’t in the best health—maybe I shouldn’t leave him alone unless I was sure he was all right. I hadn’t brought my cell phone with me—all I had room for in the boots I was wearing was my house key and my wallet—but I could call Mom on his phone and let her know…the thought died in my brain when he walked back into the room with a ratty-looking stuffed animal in his free arm. “That’s for me?” I asked, wondering why on earth he would think I’d want it.
Doc’s skin was back to its usual color, and he was breathing normally as he walked back into the room. “Do you remember him?” He smiled as he held the thing out to me.
I took it from him and looked at it. It was a rabbit, missing an eye, one of the ears was hanging on by a thread, and it was a dirty yellowish-brown color that might have been white at one time. I held it at arm’s length. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” It slightly stank of dust.
“You don’t remember him,” he said a little sadly. “Of course, you were just a little boy…you never went anywhere without that rabbit. You left him here when you were about four, I think, and I always meant to give him back, but he got buried in a closet I had my maid clean out a few days ago.” He peered at me over his glasses. “You really don’t remember him?”
Obviously, it meant a lot to him. I smiled. “A little bit.” I tucked it under my arm.
“Seeing you in that outfit reminded me I’d found him. You used to call him Mr. Bunny.” He shook his head. “He makes a nice accessory for your parade ride.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to keep him? I can drop him off after the parade.” The thing was filthy, and the mottled plush fabric felt scratchy against my skin.
“He’s a piece of your childhood.” He sounded a little hurt. “You should always hold on to pieces of your childhood. But if you don’t want him…”
I’ve never understood why older people set such a store on things like that. My old room at my parents’ was exactly the way it looked the day I moved out, like a creepy Scotty shrine. Of course, I’d pretty much lost everything I o
wned when my apartment burned down, so I’d lost whatever sentimentality I’d had toward possessions. But Doc was a sweet old man, and for whatever reason, giving me the dirty old rabbit meant something to him. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “I’ll keep him,” I said. “Thanks, Doc.” Impulsively I kissed his cheek. “It’s really sweet of you.”
“You can sleep with him until Frank comes back so you won’t be lonely.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Now, run along—I know how your mother is about being tardy—although she wasn’t that way when she was in my classes, God knows.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon,” I promised as I started down the back stairs. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Fine. I look forward to a nice long visit tomorrow.” He smiled and shut the door behind me.
I shook my head as I opened the gate to the sidewalk. As if a filthy old stuffed rabbit could replace Frank. I rolled my eyes and resisted the urge to toss the thing into a garbage can as I hurried up Governor Nicholls.
I was late, and Mom would be pissed.
I broke into a run, vaguely aware of the funny looks I was getting from other people on the sidewalks. Well, from tourists—locals didn’t give me a second glance. It was Easter, so not seeing a man in a white bikini wearing bunny ears would seem odd to the locals. The weather had changed while I’d been at Doc’s. The wind felt wetter and the sky was now full of gray clouds. It was going to rain, and I hoped it would hold off until after the parade ended. The temperature had also dropped some.
I should have brought my sweats, I thought as I finally reached the corner of Rampart and Governor Nicholls. The buggies and carriages making up the Gay Easter Parade were lined up in front of Armstrong Park.
The Gay Easter Parade was the brainchild of Rip and Marsha Naquin-Delain, and was a fund-raiser for the Food for Friends program of the NO/AIDS Task Force. I hadn’t ridden in it for years—well, since before the flood. Frank and I had gone to Palm Springs for the White Party every Easter till this year. Mom and Dad swore it was one of their favorite times of the year. Everyone wore Easter bonnets and dressy clothes—and you haven’t seen an Easter bonnet until you’ve seen the ones drag queens come up with. The parade wound its way through the Quarter, the riders tossing beads and whatever else they could come up with. I spotted the carriage for the Devil’s Weed and headed over there.
“You’re late,” Mom said as soon as I walked up. She was wearing a lovely yellow spring dress with a matching bonnet, and holding a bouquet of daisies. “Is that Mr. Bunny you’ve got?” She smiled. Mom is beautiful. She has amazing skin, wears very little makeup, and always wears her long black hair in a braid that reaches her waist. Frank thinks I look just like her, which I consider a major compliment.
I climbed up into the carriage. “Yeah. Doc stopped me on my way here. That’s why I’m late,” I explained, “and he wanted to give me this.”
“It is Mr. Bunny.” Her eyes widened as she took him from me and smiled at him. “Oh, how you loved this rabbit when you were a little boy.” Mom looked over at me, and her smile was sad. I knew she was remembering when I was little, and was touched. “I’m amazed he kept it all this time. But then Doc has always a bit of a pack rat.” She handed me the bunny.
I handed it back to her. “I don’t want it. I thought you might.”
She gave me that sad smile again. “Yes, I do think I want him. All he needs is a run through the washer and he’ll be just fine.” She kissed my cheek. “Your beads are all up in the front of the carriage. You know what to do.”
I did. She wanted me to stand up front, next to the mule driver, and throw beads from there. She figured I’d get everyone’s attention and then they’d notice the Devil’s Weed sign behind me, which would be good for business. Dad handed me a go cup filled with mimosa—it was their drink of choice for the parade. I climbed up front, hugging my brother and sister.
“Nice outfit.” Storm smirked. He’s a lawyer, and loves nothing more than giving me shit. He’s put on a lot of weight since the flood, and his face is starting to take on a permanent reddish hue.
My sister Rain punched him in the arm, making him yelp. Rain is beautiful, married to a doctor, and loves nothing more than giving Storm shit. “You’re just jealous because there’s not enough Lycra in the world to fit your fat ass.”
I laughed as Storm spluttered a bit. I left them to their bickering and climbed to the front. I said hello to the other riders. Most of them worked for my parents at the shop. They were an eclectic mix of Goth kids, adorable young lesbians, and a couple of cute gay fraternity boys from Tulane, proudly wearing their Beta Kappa letters. Mom and Dad treated them like members of the family, and they all worshipped Mom and Dad. Then again, there weren’t many employers in the world who kept their workers supplied with the best pot to be found in southeastern Louisiana. They were all nice kids, but my favorite was Emily, a cute lesbian who shaved her head and performed with a street band. She had an amazing voice, better than most with lucrative recording contracts and hit records. She’d come down for Mardi Gras from Chicago one year and decided to stay. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and she put a strand of gold beads around my neck. “Was afraid you weren’t going to make it,” she said as she gave me a big hug.
“And risk the wrath of Mom? Perish the thought.” I grinned at her, stepping over the rise at the front to the driver’s bench.
“Hey, Scotty.” Tanner Strickland was driving our carriage. He used to work for Mom and Dad in the shop for a few years while he was getting his master’s at Tulane. He was working on his PhD now, and worked driving tourists around on buggy tours of the Quarter. He was a nice guy, his handsome face concealed by a heavy beard. His fiancée, Anna, was a living statue in Jackson Square—a brass bride. “Hope the rain holds off until we’re done.” He whistled and grinned. “Nice outfit.”
“Thanks, Tanner.” I stood on the bench next to him. Bags and bags of beads lined the floorboards. I reached down and grabbed a couple of handfuls, draping them over my arms. Just as I did, the carriages in front of us started moving.
I really had cut it close.
Another gust of cold, damp wind made me shiver as the carriage started rolling and I struggled to keep my balance. It’s not easy balancing in a moving vehicle, and the last thing I wanted to do was take a header off the stupid thing. Eventually I found my center of gravity and looked off into the distance. The clouds in the distance over the West Bank were dark and ominous looking, and the way the temperature kept dropping by the minute was not a good sign.
“Let’s get this party started!” I yelled back to everyone in the back, and they cheered.
There’s nothing like riding in a parade in New Orleans, even a small one like this. Everyone in my family—excluding me and my parents—belonged to one or more Mardi Gras krewes. Rain had let me ride with her in Iris one year, and that had been one of the best experiences of my life. The ladies of Iris know how to party—I was hungover the rest of the day and almost missed the parades the next day because I was afraid to be too far away from a toilet. The parade turned into the Quarter, and the sidewalks were lined with grinning people holding drinks and cheering, waving for beads with their free hands. I started waving and tossing beads at people, a stupid grin plastered on my face. “Happy Easter!” I shouted, and people cheered and yelled back at me. Cameras pointed at me, and I grinned happily, sometimes flexing for the photographers.
What can I say? I like being the center of attention. It’s fun.
The carriages rolled up St. Ann, and soon we were in front of a crowd of people in front of Good Friends Bar. The parade paused for a moment, and the crowds pressed closer to the carriage. I started tossing beads with both hands, waving at people I knew and making sure they got the best throws I had. The carriage started rolling with a sudden jerk, and I had to catch my balance again. The next corner on the route was Gay Central—the corner of St. Ann and Bourbon. The crowd was even thicker there, spilling out of the open do
ors of both bars and filling the sidewalks. They cheered and started jumping and waving. The parade came to another stop right when our carriage was directly in between the Pub and Oz. I started looking for David—he’d said he’d be out in front of the Pub, but couldn’t see him anywhere. I was throwing beads with both hands to hot guys on both sides of the street when I felt a strange chill go down my back.
It was a feeling I hadn’t had since—well, since before the flood.
I felt a little dizzy, like I was about to…
Have a vision.
I reached down and grabbed on to both sides of the front of the carriage. I closed my eyes and took some deep breaths.
Something—something is wrong, something is terribly wrong. Just look, and you will see. Look, you have to see!
And then, as quickly as it had started, the feeling was gone.
My body was covered with goose bumps.
I turned and looked at the front door of Oz. I scanned the smiling faces of all the guys with drinks in their hands, looking for I didn’t know what.
And then, out of the corner of my eye I saw someone in the crowd who looked terribly familiar. My heart started pounding loudly in my ears.
No, it couldn’t be him…
I turned my head quickly. All I saw was the crowd, the same faces that had been there before. I scanned their faces again, searching. But he wasn’t there.
It had just been my imagination, obviously, but the feeling had been so strong…
I’ve always been a bit psychic. I read tarot cards to help me focus, and sometimes they gave me answers. In the year before the flood, it seemed to be getting stronger and more intense. I’d communicated directly with the Goddess, going into trances and seeing Her in visions. There had even been a time when I’d been psychically linked to a man who’d been dead for almost twenty years. But after the levees failed, it hadn’t seemed to work anymore. The cards had just been cards, there had been no more visions, and I figured it was gone for good. Maybe it had become so much stronger that it had burned itself out. Maybe it was the negativity that followed in the wake of that last pre-flood Mardi Gras. I didn’t know, and probably never would know for sure.
